


Just breathe

by A_simple_lee



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:34:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28370955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_simple_lee/pseuds/A_simple_lee
Summary: Reader has a panic attack. Martin finds them, and helps as best he can.AKA some of us are going through it and Really need a hug(wrote this in one sitting and haven't proof read it so. If there are mistakes I'm sorry)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Reader, Martin Blackwood/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	Just breathe

It’s all too much. Their expectations, the workload, the fatigue - _God,_ the fatigue - the loneliness, the constant relentless prickling on the back of your neck or the burning in your ears that make you feel Something is Watching, Knows everything you’re thinking. There’s definitely no one here, but you muffle your sobs against your hand in case whatever’s lurking in the Archives would see an intern’s mental breakdown as an affront.  
You forget to breathe. You often do. The pain is too much; hot burning streams running down your face, an ache from scrunching your eyes shut too hard, the thoughts streaming through your head too fast to process. There are too many. They hurt. You need quiet, to calm down, but then the tightness in your chest turns to burning and you remember you need oxygen, pry your hand away from over your mouth, heave in a juddery gasp of air that turns into a hurried exhale, then another, and another - it’s too hurried, everything’s too fast, your ribs move of their own accord. They are no longer yours. Your lungs are no longer yours. They are Fear’s, and Fear’s alone. Your throat is not yours. The insecurities, the pain, the terror - they all rush to the surface and clog your throat and suddenly you are breathing through a straw. Your heart beats till you can hear it throbbing over and over in your ears. The world blurs at the edges, a kaleidoscope, and your face is so hot from the blood rushing everywhere, trying to carry oxygen it doesn’t have time to pick up, and your hands rise to your face but they are not your own, they do not feel, there’s a burning static in them, not enough bloodflow, it hurts, _you can’t feel them._ Your legs long since gave out but you vaguely note through the panic that you _cannot feel them._ The breaths keep coming, ripping air in and out in between sobs, and you want to scream but you can’t, don’t have the energy or the oxygen. It hurts, but you are used to this. You know it won’t last.  
You pray it won’t last.  
“ _Shit._ ”  
Over all the noise, the fear - you hear someone. Your body is locked with your head looking at the ceiling, trying to keep your windpipe open - you force it to duck into a sitting foetal position. Your peripheral catches a glimpse of strawberry blonde and blue jumper. _Martin._  
Your face crumples up a little more in a wince. He shouldn’t see you like this.  
There are hands holding yours, and you can feel them, even though each stroke of their thumbs send small waves of static shooting up the nerves in your arms. They are there. You can feel them. Him.  
“Hey, hey-” Martin soothes. “-I’m here. I need you to focus on some things for me, can you do that?”  
You manage to nod.  
“Can you count to 5 with me?”  
The words find you. In between breaths that aren’t yours, you steal 5 words to synchronise with Martin. Your fingers tap against the palms of his hands for each count. You’ve survived this before. You can do it again.  
“Great, great, well done. Can you take a slow breath for me?” He starts counting again as you will your lungs back to you. One, two, three, four- Not quite. The air catches in your throat. You try again. And again.  
It takes a small eternity, but Martin stays and counts with you until you make it to five. And then to seven. In, and out. And when you at last let out a seven second exhale, you meet his eyes, and he smiles. A small sob escapes, and you can’t stop yourself from grabbing his shoulders and pulling him into a hug. His jumper’s soft, and he smells of cinnamon and warmth and _comfort_.  
“S-sorry, I’m sorry-” There are still tears flowing from you and they pool against your cheeks, leaving damp patches on his jumper.  
His hands rub circles against your back. “Hey, it’s okay, alright? You don’t need to apologise. What can I do?”  
“ _Stay._ ”  
And he does, one hand carding through your hair, softly muttering reassurances every minute or so. The sobbing stops after a while, and the two of you walk hand-in-hand to the breakroom for a cup of tea.  
Thank God for Martin Blackwood.


End file.
